<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Shell Shock by bouncingclowns</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27203798">Shell Shock</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bouncingclowns/pseuds/bouncingclowns'>bouncingclowns</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Nat’s Ratched One Shots [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Ratched (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, fluff sort of, gwen knows her too well, mildred has terrible coping mechanisms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 18:01:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,459</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27203798</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bouncingclowns/pseuds/bouncingclowns</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Gwendolyn makes quick work of wrapping the cotton towel around her shoulders, tucking it closed across her torso. And Mildred?</p><p>Mildred just watches. Exhaustion seeps through her system as adrenaline funnels out of her. There’s something else, too — something warm and glowing. Something she knows it entirely to do with Gwendolyn.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gwendolyn Briggs/Mildred Ratched</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Nat’s Ratched One Shots [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1965112</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>127</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Shell Shock</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It had happened so quickly. One moment, she’s helping the patient — a young veteran with shell shock — into bed. The next, his fingers are seizing Mildred by the shoulders. His eyes are bulging, pupils dilating, irises fogging with a look Mildred knows all too well. And then he’s yelling at her, pushing her against a wall, screaming that she’s weak, that she’ll never survive in the trenches if she doesn’t <em>man up</em>! He’s crying by the time Huck and Betsy are able to pull him off of a stunned Mildred.</p><p>Huck turns his attention to Mildred while Betsy sedates the bartered Lieutenant. He tries to place a hand on her shoulder, but Mildred jerks away. She glares at him with an incredulous look, back straightening. She’s gone without so much as a word, heels clicking against the uneven floor as she pushes past Huck’s sympathy. It hadn’t been intentional. That’s what Mildred keeps telling herself, and deep down she knows it’s right. But it doesn’t change the way her skin burns, or the images dancing across her mind.</p><p>It doesn’t change her past. As Mildred sprints down the hallway, tears stinging her vision, she knows that’s what she’s really running from. She’s running from the times she’d been pushed to inflict intentional pain. From the nights she’d gone without food. From the bombs dropped so close to her hospital tent, she thought they might take her with them — eviscerate her until she was nothing more than a pile of ash.</p><p>From the part of her that still wishes they had.</p><p>She finishes out her shift with not even a word about the incident. She avoids Huck and Betsy. She drives home in silence.</p><p>Once home, Mildred draws a bath and slips out of her nurse’s uniform. The frock falls around her ankles, and she shakes it off. She hopes that maybe, just maybe, shedding the thing will alleviate some of the pressure building on her chest. To Mildred’s dismay, that hope is dashed when she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Bruises imprint either forearm in the shape of fingertips. Mildred presses her palm to one of them, wincing at the tight pain that hums under the purplish skin.</p><p>The bath is hot — hotter than she’d intended, but Mildred doesn’t mind. She lets out a heavy sigh as the water singes her skin, seeps through to her core, thrums against her pulse. Steam rolls off of Mildred’s knees when they dip above the water’s surface. She pushes her hair off her face, palms lingering over her ears as her eyes flutter closed. She realizes the folly of her ways too late.</p><p>As her eyes close, her mind wanders to one of her first nights on base. To the first soldier who had ever begged her to kill him. To the first Sergeant who had ever warned her to grow thicker skin. She hears gunshots popping, echoing, shattering her eardrums. She hears bombs whistle. The sound melds with a shriek, and she’s screaming without registering the difference between what’s real and what isn’t, eyes still closed, hands still pressed against her ears.</p><p>Mildred crosses her arms across her chest and brings her fingernails to dig into the skin of her shoulders. She hisses when it’s tender, but the pain grounds her in some way. It’s enough to mute her cries to short, pathetic inhales — to low whimpers and wails.</p><p>“Darling, what is it?”</p><p>She hadn’t heard the door open, hadn’t noticed when Gwendolyn knelt next to her. She’s still too lost in the war she’s fighting against her pulse. Gwendolyn scans her, notices the bruises marring her forearms , and the way she’s digging her nails into the flesh above her shoulders, and her stomach drops.</p><p>“Mildred, sweetheart, will you look at me?”</p><p>Gwendolyn’s query only half registers, so she reaches for one of Mildred’s hands instead. Much to her surprise, Mildred allows her fingers to release from her own skin. In spite of the angry, red indents left behind, Gwendolyn takes it as a victory.</p><p>“What’s happened, my sweet? Who did this to you?” A million possibilities swirl through Gwendolyn’s mind. She braces for the worst of them.</p><p>Mildred’s eyes squeeze tighter. She shakes her head, and it sends droplets of water smattering across Gwendolyn’s face.</p><p>“Cuh— can’t…” Mildred hiccups, chokes on a shuttered exhale.</p><p>Her eyes snap open, and Gwendolyn knows she’s still not seeing her. They’re too wide, too stormy. The usual honey that coats her gaze has gone almost jet black. She flicks the look upwards, like she’s watching the night sky, and she’s not breathing, oh God , who did this to her?</p><p>“Mildred, my darling, can you please look at me?” Gwendolyn frames her face with her hands, bringing her thumb to stroke the apple of either cheek.</p><p>And Mildred does, slowly, laboriously. Her deep eyes sweeping towards Gwendolyn’s green ones. When Gwendolyn smiles, a bewildered look flashes across her features. Like a feral cat, or a startled child, or a soldier returning from war. A knot settles in the pit of Gwen’s stomach.</p><p>“Would you like me to get you a towel?”</p><p>Mildred nods with a trembling lower lip. Gwendolyn kisses her temple chastely before she helps her stand. Mildred shivers as everything above her knees is pulled from the warmth of the tub. Her skin is blotchy as heat leaves her body. She stands like a teenager who has not yet grown into themself. Gwendolyn makes quick work of wrapping the cotton towel around her shoulders, tucking it closed across her torso. And Mildred?</p><p>Mildred just watches. Exhaustion seeps through her system as adrenaline funnels out of her. There’s something else, too — something warm and glowing. Something she knows it entirely to do with Gwendolyn.</p><p>“Do you think you can get yourself dressed?”</p><p>Mildred ponders the question for a moment. Her legs feel like rubber, but she doesn’t really feel as though she’s in her body, either. Some part of her is still there in that hospital tent. The stench of dried blood and cigarettes singes her nostrils. The whine of bombs and bullets and patients echoes in her ears. She doesn’t realize how long she’s been silent until she looks up and Gwendolyn is approaching with a sleep shirt. She reaches a hand out to Mildred.</p><p>“Here, grab onto me. Careful, it’s slippery.”</p><p>Gwendolyn moves in autopilot. The adrenaline which had left Mildred seemed to find a new host in her. It buzzed against her spine, sent tremors flitting across her chest. It <em>hurt</em>. Did Mildred hurt this much?</p><p>“This is yours.” It’s shaky, almost silent, but it’s Mildred. It’s her. And Gwendolyn smiles in spite of herself.</p><p>“That’s never stopped you before.” She teases lightly as she helps the younger woman into it.</p><p>The shirt doesn’t fit. It billows down to Mildred’s knees, and hangs below her fingertips. Still, the cotton is soft against her overcharged nerve endings. It smells like cinnamon — like Gwendolyn. Her Gwen. Mildred brings the sleeve over her left hand to her nose and inhales. Gwendolyn smiles at that.</p><p>She takes Mildred by the waist and ushers her out of the bathroom without bothering to drain the tub. Gwen pulls back the covers and deposits Mildred there, tucking her in and coming around to the other side of the bed to lie next to her. Gwendolyn looks and Mildred.</p><p>Mildred stares at the ceiling.</p><p>“I suppose you’ll want to know what happened.” She picks at one of her fingernails, eliciting a gentle clicking noise as part of it breaks free.</p><p>Gwendolyn wants to still her hands — to take them in her own and kiss her knuckles until the tremor there stops. She doesn’t, though. One thing at a time. Gwendolyn has learned how to choose her battles.</p><p>“I won’t force you to.” She sighs. “However … you’re bruised, and … you were screaming, Mildred. I mean really … just …” Gwendolyn huffs, words faltering against the weight threatening against her chest.</p><p>She knows that Mildred can hear her, knows that she’s registered the fluster in her tone. Gwendolyn thinks she might hate herself for it. That is, until …</p><p>“I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did.” Mildred apologizes before she’s even told her what’s wrong. “It just … I didn’t mean … he didn’t mean to.”</p><p>Gwendolyn swallows the lump forming in her throat. It shouldn’t come as too much of a shock that someone had hurt her. Christ, there were bruises in the shape of hands on both her arms. There’s something about hearing her voice it, though, that makes Gwendolyn’s insides shatter to a million pieces. Gwen sets her jaw, nostrils flaring.</p><p>“Didn’t mean to what, darling?”</p><p>There’s a beat between them. A pause that feels deafening and all encompassing.</p><p>“Mildred? Didn’t mean <em>what?</em>”</p><p>“He was just scared.” Mildred’s eyes go wide. She’s pleading with Gwen, and it breaks her heart again, but Gwen doesn’t respond. She just waits. “I was helping him to bed, and I said something stupid. I knew better, but I called him Lieutenant; he’d explicitly asked that we not do that. And it … he …”</p><p>She’s sucking in breaths without ever really exhaling. Tears spill across her cheeks, her arms wrap around her center as Mildred tries to shield herself in a fetal position.</p><p>“Oh, <em>Mildred</em>.” Gwendolyn aches as she pulls the woman into her arms.</p><p>“I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry!” Mildred chokes, and Gwen realizes the apology isn’t meant for her, but for him. Magbe for the others she’d seen die, too. Maybe for the men and women alike who hadn’t come home.</p><p>Gwendolyn kisses the top of her head. Her curls are still soaked, but she doesn’t care. “It was an accident, my love. You didn’t do it on purpose.”</p><p>But it only makes Mildred cry harder. A sob rips out of her, and then she’s climbing on top of the older woman. Her legs stuck between Gwen's, her head falling on her chest and creating a wet spot against her suit jacket.</p><p>“But I hurt him!” She wails, fingers puckering the collar of Gwen’s shirt. Mildred’s knuckles go white against the fabric. “I hurt everyone!”</p><p>“You don’t hurt me.” Gwendolyn murmurs into her hair, when she can think of no other way to soothe the aching woman.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“You’re an angel of mercy.”</em>
</p><p>Huck’s voice creates a chasm in her chest. Mildred shakes her head, sucks in a shuttered breath and holds it. It coughs out of her in a choke when her lungs can’t keep it any longer. Her head throbs. Her blood hammers in her ears. She’s tired, her arms hurt, and her back hurts, and everything feels <em>wrong</em>. Everything except Gwendolyn. If she can just focus on Gwen, focus on the rise and fall of her ribcage, and the steady beat of her heart, on the way her fingers are stroking her cheek, then maybe this will all go away.</p><p>“Mildred, did you hear me?” Gwen tries again when Mildred still hasn’t responded. “You are the gentlest, most caring person I have ever known. Everything — and I do mean everything you do — is out of love. Even the things that others may deem questionable; they are never without reason. Never.”</p><p>Something stills in Mildred in that insistence. Her breath seems to latch onto Gwen’s words easier than oxygen. They don’t burn nearly as much to swallow. Even still, Mildred isn’t sure she fully believes them; because she has hurt Gwen.</p><p>
  <em>“I love you.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I don’t even know what to say to that; and anyway, I don’t believe you.”</em>
</p><p>“But I —“</p><p>“No. Not a chance in hell.” Gwendolyn brings her thumb under her chin and wills her to look at her.</p><p>Mildred sees tears shimmering behind her pale green eyes. She knows they’re for her, because of her.<em> Even now I’m hurting her</em>. But the thought is cut off by Gwendolyn’s lips on hers like gossamer. And then Mildred is kissing her, pressing against her like she’s her only source of oxygen, or like she’s shirked the need to breathe altogether. Her thighs frame Gwen’s hips, her palms cup Gwen’s cheeks, her lips dote what must be a thousand pecks across her face and neck.</p><p>“Woah, sweetness, slow down.” Gwendolyn sits up as best she can with the younger woman still splayed across her lap.</p><p>Mildred looks at her with something akin to confusion twisting behind her stormy eyes.</p><p>“What’s the matter?” She asks, and it’s a little forced, a little rasped, a little breathless.</p><p>Gwen’s lips pull into a frown. “You … what are you doing, sweetness?”</p><p>“I’m kissing you.”</p><p>And Gwendolyn knows this coping mechanism — where Mildred uses intimacy to avert attention from herself. Gwendolyn tries not to think of how she’d learned to do it, but sometimes images of an adolescent Mildred creep into thoughts. She hates this most of all, in part because she hates having to stop her; hates the look that draws on her already darkened features.</p><p>“Please, Mildred.” Gwen whispers when she doesn’t trust the timber of her own voice. “Please, just … just let me hold you right now? Let me take care of you.”</p><p>Mildred’s gaze flicks to her palms, which now rest against her lap. Shame creeps against her neck and settles on her cheeks in a flush. She’s not used to being seen so completely. Most of the time, it’s tinged with a sort of nervous enthrallment. She loves how Gwendolyn notices the little things.</p><p>Usually. Not always.</p><p>“I don’t understand.” Mildred whines, but Gwendolyn knows better.</p><p>She cups her cheek, wills the brunette to look at her.</p><p>“You do.” Gwendolyn says with a nod.</p><p>The redhead’s eyes shimmer with so much adoration, Mildred thinks she might need another bath. She doesn’t feel worthy of that look, not in the wake of all the destruction she’s wrought. Not when there’s a man lying in a hospital bed whose emotional demise she had directly caused. Still, Gwendolyn persists. She tangles her fingers through Mildred’s damp curls, pulling her down against her chest once more with the gentlest tug. How is Gwen so good at staying level? How has she not flung Mildred to the side like yesterday’s bread yet? It baffles her. It tears her insides apart, and then stitches them back up again in the same breath.</p><p>“I love you, Mildred Ratched.” She murmurs into the top of her bed. “Do you hear me? I love you.”</p><p>Mildred yawns against her chest, fingers finding the lapel of her jacket.</p><p>“I love you too.” She murmurs as her body gives into exhaustion.</p><p>She jolts before she can fall asleep, inhaling sharply and snapping her eyes wide. Gwendolyn can’t help the chuckle that rumbles in her throat.</p><p>“Sleep, my darling. I’ll be right here.”</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>